


Seven Days

by sweetestsight



Series: Exercises In Free Love [4]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Coming Out, Communication Failure, Fluff and Angst, Light BDSM, M/M, smut of the flowery poetic variety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 07:22:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17618000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetestsight/pseuds/sweetestsight
Summary: “I told my family about us,” Roger says conversationally over dinner.Brian promptly chokes on his vegetable stir fry.





	Seven Days

_saturday_

 

“I told my family about us,” Roger says conversationally over dinner.

Brian promptly chokes on his vegetable stir fry.

John frowns at Roger in reprimand, wordlessly handing Brian a napkin before speaking. “Just like that?”

Roger nods, unconcerned. He shoves another forkful of food into his mouth.

Freddie catches John’s eye, silence reigning over the table as Brian takes a quick gulp of water, eyes watering. Roger shoots him a sunny smile, making sure to show off his half-chewed food like the toddler that he is, and Brian scowls back.

“You could've led into that better,” he says.

“Aren't you happy for me?” he asks innocently.

“Did you get disowned?”

“No. I thought it went rather well. No maiming, no threats, no manhunt to bludgeon the three of you to death with my mum’s favorite vase—”

“Glad to hear it,” Freddie mutters.

“And it felt good to get it off my chest. It never feels good to sneak around like that, you know?”

Again silence reigns over the table. This time it’s Brian who looks to Freddie uncertainly, but Freddie is suddenly deeply interested in the nicked wood of the table’s surface.

Roger scoffs, crossing his arms. “I thought you'd all be happy.”

“We are,” Freddie rushes to say. “Roger, we are. We’re proud of you.”

“Is our relationship some dirty little secret? Am I not supposed to tell my own family?”

“That's not it, Rog. You know it’s different for all of us. None of us are going to have the same experience. It might not just happen like that.”

“What, you think this _just happened_ for me?” Roger snaps.

(How it happened was like this:

“I wanted to tell you first,” Roger whispers across the living room, cheeks red from one glass of wine too many before Christmas dinner.

“Tell me what?” Clare asks him boredly. She's curled up in an armchair, scrolling through Instagram as if it's an Olympic sport.

“I’m—you know my roommates?”

“You mean your boyfriends?”

“Don't joke like that,” Roger chides, deflating a little.

She looks up finally. “I know you guys are all dating.”

“What?”

“Roger, literally everyone knows that. I'm pretty sure we knew you were dating before _you_ knew you were dating.”

Roger blinks.

 She scoffs and goes back to her phone.

“I love them a lot,” he says weakly.

“I _know_.”

“I’m not kidding!”

“I know that too, idiot!”

“What are you arguing about in there?” their mom calls from the kitchen.

“Roger loves his boyfriends.”

“Oh,” she replies. A moment later she appears, casserole dish in hand. She places it on the table and then looks around, exasperated. “Roger, come here and set the silverware out. You two are over there lazing around and you expect me to do the cooking _and_ set the table? Come on.”

He stares at her. “You knew?”

“I've known you're in love with them since you first joined that band. Before that, even. When did you even meet Brian? Since then. Now come on, get up. Put more wine out, too.”

She walks back into the kitchen. Clare continues scrolling through her phone, frowning at something on the screen. Roger looks back and forth between her and the door to the kitchen, trying to get his thoughts together. Finally he gets up and paces to the kitchen indignantly. “You knew for years and you _didn’t think to inform me that I was in love?!_ ”)

“It was easy,” he tells them, pushing food around his plate. “I don't want to force you guys out or anything, but it feels good. It's better than what we’re doing right now. I don't want to hide this. I'm proud of us. I want to tell the whole world how much I love you,” he finishes quietly.

He glances up at them all. Brian and John are both looking at the table, lost in their own thoughts. Freddie is the only one to meet his eyes and does so hesitantly, offering a thin smile before taking his hand and kissing his knuckles.

“It’s different for us,” he says for the second time that night. “Honey, I’m glad they accepted it so fast but the rest of us aren’t even out to our parents yet. It’s a lot to take in at once.”

“I know.” Roger’s posture softens finally. “I know. I’m sorry. I don’t want to force you.”

Freddie sighs. It’s almost ironic how quickly he can feel himself giving in after Roger gives up on fighting. As soon as he’s accepted defeat Freddie’s will caves like wet tissue paper. “Soon,” he murmurs. “Okay? It might not be tomorrow, but soon.”

Roger holds his gaze for a moment before nodding.

 

The topic slides over easily to make way for other things at the dinner table: new songs, potential record deals, stories from class and the like.

It doesn’t slide from Freddie’s mind.

He’s tormented thinking about it all night, tossing fitfully as he tries to fall asleep. He’s alone in bed until late while the others finish up on readings and papers and academics. He wishes he had something to study so his mind would be busy with anything besides fretting about what might come to pass; as it is all his work is in the studio in the art building and painting has come to feel a little more like an obligation than a passion these days, anyway.

When Roger finally, _finally_ comes to bed Freddie runs a hand teasingly down his spine and leans in to kiss him, but Roger just turns at the last second so Freddie’s lips land on the corner of his mouth chastely instead.

“Sorry, babe,” Roger whispers into the dark, a smile in his voice. “I have to be up early tomorrow.”

Freddie huffs, put out. He has the distinct feeling he’s being punished for something.

“Oh, hush. If you’re that rowdy you can go bother Brian.”

 _“Bother?”_ Freddie hisses back incredulously. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize passionate lovemaking was such a bother to you! My mistake!”

The door swings open just as wide as is necessary to let John’s silhouette slip through and then closes just as fast. “I love you guys,” he starts, and Freddie hears the rasp of cloth against skin as he strips, “but can you save whatever this is about until morning? I’ve got enough of a headache from multivariable calculus as it is.”

“Yeah, Freddie,” Roger says primly. “John needs to get some sleep. If you’re going to be loud at least go outside.”

“Maybe I will go find Brian. I wouldn’t want to _bother_ you,” Freddie grumbles, because if nothing else he knows the feeling of missing out will cause Roger at least mild levels of irritation. He gives his warm spot in bed to John, who accepts it with a happy sigh.

Brian is still studying, sprawled out on the couch with a half empty mug of stone-cold tea beside him. “You’re up,” he greets, and doesn’t hesitate to wrap an arm around Freddie’s shoulders as he burrows into his side.

He even puts his book down. At least someone still loves Freddie in this house.

“Any reason you’re looking for someone to cuddle out here and not in our no doubt very crowded bed?” Brian murmurs into his hair.

“I got kicked out.”

“Why?”

“I’m too rowdy, apparently.”

Brian’s mouth twitches. “And now you want to be rowdy on the couch instead?”

Long fingers thread through Freddie’s hair before rubbing at his neck slowly. It shakes the rattling thoughts out of his head as fast as any rough fuck could anyway, and besides Freddie is suddenly not in the mood. “No,” he mumbles. “This is fine.”

He feels Brian huff out a laugh before dragging the worn afghan off the back of the couch and draping it over Freddie’s shoulders, pages of his book rustling faintly as he rearranges it on his lap. His fingers return to Freddie’s hair and despite all his doubts about the night he’s drifting off within minutes.

 

_sunday_

 

Roger stirs first, turning in the circle of his arms and pressing an open-mouthed kiss to John’s collarbone before extracting himself from his hold. John carefully doesn’t move.

Then it’s Brian. John can tell from his breathing that he’s only barely awake, not nearly as perceptive as he usually is. He can always tell when John’s faking sleep. It’s a good thing he isn’t paying attention this morning.

Freddie is last. He must not have slept well either, because he wakes up in stages of minute shifts and barely-audible murmurs. Finally, John feels fingers card through his hair before the mattress dips and shifts. Feet pad out of the room and then John is by himself.

He sits up quietly, listening for any source of noise in the apartment. He’s alone, and thank god for that. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could pretend that nothing was the matter.

It needs to happen this week. It needs to happen. Seven days; that’s all he’ll give himself. Only seven days, and by the end this will all be over with, for better or for worse. His family will know the exact nature of his living situation. What they do with the information is up to them.

He can feel his hands getting clammy just thinking about it.

He tries to picture the scene: his mom sitting across from him and Julie at her side. He tries to picture his own fingers folded in front of himself. In his imaginary world they aren't shaking.

In reality they very much are.

 _I'm in love with my three bandmates,_ imaginary John states simply, _and they love me back._

His imaginary mom promptly bursts into tears.

He needs to do it, though. He needs to get it out of the way—not because Roger led the way for the rest of them but because he's been meaning to ever since the beginning. He loves both of his families equally. It feels wrong to hide one from the other.

Hands still shaking, he pulls out his phone. It takes him two tries to unlock it and three to open the chain with his mom.

 _Brunch on Friday?_ he types, painstakingly slow. He reads it three times for spelling errors, mentally kicks himself and then sends it quickly. Then he turns his phone off and leaves it on the nightstand.

He can do this. He can.

A quick tour of the apartment reveals it to be well and truly empty, a quick note on the fridge relaying in curling script that Freddie has gone to visit his parents for tea. Below that in slanting but nearly illegible handwriting is simply, “Work -Bri”. Roger has left no note, but John knows it’s his turn to manage the shop today.

Sighing inwardly and still wracked with jitters, he settles down by his practice amp and lets the familiar weight of his bass ease his mind off things, music tugging him back into a wary state of meditation as the morning passes by.

 

Brian spends all of five minutes that morning thinking about the night before. That’s all he gives himself to worry about it. The day is short enough as it is. Besides, Roger had said it didn’t really matter. He’d said he didn’t want to force the three of them into something they weren’t ready for. He doesn’t need to tell his parents; Roger wouldn’t be mad if he didn’t.

Right?

What about Freddie and John? Will they be upset? He doesn’t want to do this, not yet. He doesn’t know that he’s ready. No, that’s wrong. He knows he’s not ready. That’s a fact like the stars above and the earth below. There are seventy nine moons orbiting Jupiter, the galaxy is spinning inward on itself and he, Brian Harold May, is a coward. These are facts.

Five minutes are up.

He gets back to work, but he can’t quite focus on it anymore.

 

“Any girlfriends?” His dad asks him.

Freddie smiles coyly into his tea. He wonders what would happen if he was dating three women; if his parents would be happy, if they would support it. He wonders if they would be proud. There’s no way to guess. He doesn't have enough to go on. He doesn't know how they'd react to three _anything_.

“No, papa,” he says simply, reaching for a biscuit.

 

“Do you want to get a drink?” Roger asks John, because he _really_ needs a drink and it’s pathetic to go alone.

“I can’t,” John says with a shake of his head, not looking up from his textbook. “I really don’t have time.”

Put out, Roger frowns. He looks to Freddie, but Freddie is lost in his own little world and sitting in the armchair instead of on the couch so Roger can’t even curl into his side. He’s been oddly distant with them all day and it’s putting Roger on edge.

And then there’s Brian, sat at the kitchen table and re-scribbling the same equations since earlier that afternoon. He didn’t look up when Roger came home and only gave him a nod and a tiny fractured smile when Roger had offered him tea earlier. He’s spiralling; Roger knows he’s spiralling. He’s known him longer than the others and he’s achingly familiar with the sighs, with the way he’s throwing himself into work and drifting aimlessly throughout the rest of the day when he doesn’t have something to distract himself from his thoughts.

Roger wishes he knew what he was thinking.

He can never quite bring him back to Earth though, not when Brian doesn’t want to go. It’s something of a sore point, that for all his sound and color and flare he can’t quite distract one of his oldest friends from his own thoughts when he needs it the most. Maybe he isn’t enough for him.

He contents himself with taking a seat beside him at the table, resting his head on his arms and watching Brian’s pen scratch against the table. Brian doesn’t even notice he’s there.

 

Dinner is an awkward affair of stilted silences and forks clinking a bit too loud against cheap china. When they all turn in for bed that night John gives Roger a teasingly dirty and faintly minty kiss, tugging at his hair in the way he knows drives him absolutely wild; Roger turns it sweet and chaste within the span of seconds and breathes something about being too tired, and then tucks John securely beneath his chin and clings to him like a dying man even as they both drift off. Brian sleeps with his back to them. Freddie doesn’t sleep at all.

 

_monday_

 

His most recent studio project veers decidedly off path into the spectrum of stark and violent.

“Nice,” his TA breathes.

Freddie takes a step back to look at it: clouds of brown and grey, blue cutting through like water on pavement, the light of the sky and stars all but dark. Cold and unwelcoming, a horribly abstract thing that he can only imagine will be a pain in the ass to unload on some unsuspecting tourist. “It’s really not,” he says.

His TA hums noncommittedly.

Freddie is right though, and he knows he is. It isn’t nice at all. Nothing about it is even vaguely pleasant.

When he woke up that morning it was to Brian muttering restlessly about gravitational waves in his sleep in the way that he only does when he’s sleeping poorly. John wasn’t anywhere to be found and Roger was slumped over the kitchen island with a cup of tea, staring dejectedly into space.

“I’ve killed us, haven’t I?” he’d whispered as Freddie appeared, blue eyes tired and sad.

Freddie had paced over quickly and gathered him as close as Roger would allow. “No, darling,” he’d replied.

“I have. Everything’s messed up now. I never should’ve said anything.”

“Hush. You know that’s not true.”

It hadn’t helped.

Maybe he should’ve told him flat out. That probably would’ve helped, because the truth is his blame is entirely misdirected. The problem isn’t Roger, it’s him. He’s the one who’d always been adamantly against the idea of labels and being public and open with things; him, the eldest, the one who gets around, the one who’s supposed to know better. He should’ve known the three of them would take that cue to heart and live by it. He should’ve known they’d take that down as what he wants and use it as a brick on which their entire relationship was built.

This is his fault.

He glances over to see the TA focusing on his classmate’s canvas as she tries bravely to carry on as if the man isn’t staring a hole through her work. Once he’s sure he’s busy he pulls out his phone.

 _Tea tomorrow? I haven’t seen you in a while,_ he types. Then he adds a flower emoji because he can.

It only takes a few seconds for him to get a sunflower in return. _Noon? Usual spot?_ he gets back. He types an affirmative and puts his phone away quickly.

 

John spends the morning wrapped in a pair of wiry arms and a tangle of clean linens, and then spends the later hours leading up to noon slowly tugging the owner of said arms back down to Earth with firm touches and and wandering lips. They should really be studying, but he knows they both need this more. Something about the overlapping pain and pleasure and rush of control never fails to drag every lingering thought drifting through the air down into a single point of contact, bringing everything into startling clarity for just a few hours. He knows Freddie and Roger don’t completely get it even if they entertain those needs every now and then, but he also knows they’re aware they don’t need to. This is his and Brian’s domain: the sting of pain and the ache of exhausted muscles. This is what they do for each other, he bringing Brian out of his head and back into his body and Brian giving his mind something new to focus on, razor-sharp and entrancing.

When he finally finishes it’s with a gasp as Brian digs his teeth into John’s collarbone and lets blunt nails sink into his shoulder blades, John’s thumb still resting against his windpipe in what’s more a threat than anything and his other hand tugging roughly at his hair. Brian’s legs remain wrapped securely around his hips even as the rest of his body collapses into the mattress; they must be starting to ache like that, but he makes no move to let go. John rubs a palm over his thigh soothingly and kisses one of the bruises on his neck.

“Are you alright?”

Brian’s eyes are still closed. He says nothing, but his lips quirk vaguely upward as John kisses his cheek.

“Words, love.”

“I’m okay.” His voice comes out faint and slow.

“Good boy.” He says it mostly as a joke, but he doesn’t miss the way Brian’s breath catches.

“Are you alright?” Brian asks him.

“Yeah, I’m alright.” He rolls his shoulders experimentally and feels the dull ache Brian’s nails left flare into a sharp sting as the scratches stretch. He lets out a soft hiss.

“You sure?” Brian murmurs.

His eyes are open now, but John still can’t quite get a read on him. Maybe he’s still lost in his own head a little bit. He wouldn’t blame him. It’s been a hard week. “I’m okay,” he reassures him. “Just a bit scratched up. Maybe I should tie you down next time.”

Brian lets out a little breathless laugh and smiles the first smile John has seen in a handful of days. “Do you promise?”

Yeah, he’s fine.

Nonetheless he keeps him close, running his fingers across his scalp and the bruises on his hips and the marks on his neck and lets his mind drift from one topic to the next and never the one neither of them want to think about. Here he can focus solely on what matters: the slow descent back to the ground, the warm weight of one of the boys he loves, the sting in his back and on his collarbone, the ache in his muscles. This is real.

He doesn’t stir until the slam of the front door drags him out of his thoughts. He kisses Brian’s temple and leaves him to drift in and out of consciousness, tugging on some sweats and wondering distantly if there’s anything in the fridge. Halfway to the kitchen he passes Roger, still wearing his coat and shoes. Roger takes one look at him and flicks the mark on his collarbone.

“Ow!”

“Meow, more like,” Roger replies with an exaggerated wink. He even makes a little clawing gesture, and John wants to hit his head against a wall. “Whatever you’re making, will you make me some?”

“The health bureau said people need to stop feeding pests or else they’ll never go away.”

He doesn’t miss the flash of hurt that flits across his face before it’s replaced with a familiar cocky grin—too quick to address but not slow enough that he can write it off as nothing.. “Oh, it’s far too late for that,” Roger says. “I think you’re stuck with us.”

“You think?”

“‘Fraid so.”

John has to suck on his cheek in order not to smile. “I’ll make you some stir fry,” he says.

Roger gives him a sunny grin, tongue stuck between his teeth. He doesn’t go straight to check on Brian like John would’ve thought, electing instead to lock himself in the bathroom.

Six days. Six days left. Just six.

He can do this. They’re gonna be alright.

 

Brian remains relatively loose-limbed and stress free throughout the day, blessedly. He uses it to knock out three readings as he lazes around the apartment. His thoughts don’t catch up to him until after dinner. That’s when he knows he needs to do something about it.

He waits until right before bed to call his parents. It’s the first time he has alone all day: after Freddie gets home he all but glues himself to Brian’s side to murmur random anecdotes about his day into his ear and brush carefully at his hair. He gets like that sometimes, soft and quiet and craving contact. It’s usually the precursor to some storm brewing on the horizon, the mood he falls in when he’s been missing sleep from worry and is feeling a little unhinged as a result. He wishes he could address it flat-out, but he knows the only way Freddie will really talk about it is if they all wait him out.

He closes the door to the bedroom carefully after a quick peek into the apartment: John and Freddie are on dish duty tonight and Roger is missing in action, presumably for a smoke break outside. When he knows nobody is listening he quickly dials the number of his childhood home from memory.

It rings three times before picking up with a dull clunk. _“Brian,”_ his mother greets.

He lets out a breath. “Hi, mum. I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

_“No, we haven’t quite turned in yet. Is everything alright?”_

He winces inwardly. He just wants everything to seem as normal as possible. This is all very normal. He should’ve called early and then she wouldn’t have suspected anything. “Everything’s okay,” he says quickly. “I was just thinking I’ve been so busy with school recently and we haven’t had time to talk in a while. Can I come by sometime this week?”

_“Well, it’s all up to your schedule. School comes first and we don’t want to pull you away from that. The last thing you need is a distraction.”_

He winces again. They’d definitely qualify one significant other as a distraction, let alone three. The band is already bad enough. “I know,” he says. “I just want to catch up. I know it hasn’t been long since break but we haven’t caught up since then.”

 _“Well,”_ she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice. _“If you really want to catch up with your old parents that badly we’ll be around your apartment on Thursday. Your father has an appointment in the area. Can we come for tea?”_

Thursday. He usually has the apartment to himself all of Thursday afternoon, when John and Roger are in their respective labs and Freddie is looking after the shop. “Thursday would be great,” he says.

_“Wonderful. We love you, sweetheart.”_

“Bye, mum. I love you.”

He hangs up and puts the phone face down on the bedspread, letting out a breath. He’s barely sitting there for a minute when the door swings open and Freddie sneaks through.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Did you want to be alone?”

Brian shakes his head. He lays down and a second later Freddie is right there, in his space but carefully not touching him. Brian swallows hard. It feels like the air between them is vibrating, charged with something not wholly good.

“Do you think Roger is mad at me?” Freddie whispers.

“I don’t think so. Why would you say that?”

“He’s been acting weird.” When Brian doesn’t say anything he licks his lips. “Have you noticed?”

Brian wants to tell him the truth: that he hasn’t had time to notice Roger because he’s too busy worrying over Freddie. He doesn’t, in the end. He just silently opens his arms and waits for Freddie to burrow into him for another sleepless night.

 

_tuesday_

 

Tuesday rolls in like tar, black and toxic and solidifying rapidly into something that’s bound to linger and get disgustingly sticky in the sunshine. The sunshine doesn’t rear its head, at least. That’s something. Anything so bright and warm would just cast the horrible coldness into even more stark relief.

John smokes three cigarettes on the way to class. When he gets home Brian wrinkles his nose at the smell lingering in his hair.

“How was lecture?” he asks, eyes probing.

“Fine.”

“Stressed?”

“It’ll be alright.”

Brian accepts that, going back to the eggs he’s cooking on the stove. Odd, how in times like these they can read each other so smoothly and so easily accept each other’s faults. Give them something to disagree about and they’ll argue all day, but as soon as Freddie and Roger find themselves at odds it’s Brian who John seeks out; Brian who he tries to support and who supports him in turn; Brian who step for step meets his determination to pull the four of them back together.

Maybe it’s time they start doing that.

Five days.

 

Roger isn’t cold to him in the shop. He’s perfectly cordial, easy with his smiles and well-mannered for the first time Freddie remembers. It’s that that throws him off. Usually their hours here are marked arguing over who gets dibs on which items if they don’t sell and shamelessly flirting when no one is around to see. This is just confusing. He wants to stay and sort it out as much as he wants to run far away, to fall into John or Brian’s arms and get one of them to explain what the hell it is that’s happening.

An excuse presents itself in the form of a text. _Can’t do today. Really really sick._

He frowns. _Hangover?_

_Flu._

_I’ll bring some stuff over._

He gets a thumbs up emoji in response.

“Roger, darling,” he calls. “I need to head out early.”

Normally that’d get him a whining plea for his company and a demand that he make it up to him later; today Roger just gives him a polite smile and a soft-spoken, “whatever you need.”

Freddie quells down a wave of guilt-anguish-irritation and gathers his things. Within moments he’s out the door and headed to the nearest pharmacy.

 

“He doesn’t want us to do it if it’s going to make us miserable,” John states.

He’s washed his hair since coming back from class, replacing the lingering cigarette smoke with rose and honey. It’s warm and soothing in a way that resonates behind Brian’s sternum where he stores all his other favorite things: Freddie’s voice when he’s sleepy, Roger’s mouth when he smiles, the taste of white chocolate and the feeling of holding his guitar in his hands. It’s safety in its simplest form.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yeah,” Brian says quickly. “Sorry.”

John would probably manage to pull off that unimpressed look if it weren’t for the coy smile he can’t quite seem to keep down. “I’m being serious. He doesn’t want us to be unhappy.”

“I know.”

John gestures silently, and Brian picks up the meaning from his raised eyebrows. _Yet here we are, unhappy._

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why not? We either do it or we don’t. If none of us are planning on saying anything then we need to stop stressing about the fallout, or else there’s no point in avoiding the stress of coming out.”

“The idea’s been planted, though,” Brian argues. “Before it was just about proceeding on the path we’d already chosen. Now it’s that we’re actively denying changing anything.”

John shakes his head. “If you don’t tell your parents none of us will be upset. I don’t care. Neither does Fred and neither does Rog.”

The words don’t do anything for the mess of nerves twisting his stomach; they don’t change his resolve either, or make him want to cancel what he already has planned. “The same goes for you,” he says instead.

John doesn’t look like he’s changed his mind, either.

 

“I have a secret,” Freddie whispers.

Kashmira looks at him, skin clammy and nose red. She blows it loudly into a tissue before replying. “Are you going to share with the class or just taunt me with it?”

He swallows.

“I’ve never known you to be the quiet type.”

“You can’t tell anyone,” he warns her. “Not a soul.”

“Just say it,” she says impatiently, rolling her eyes.

He does.

 

They wait long hours around the apartment, pretending to study as they watch the door. Late into the evening it finally rattles before swinging open, Freddie stepping through.

“Where’s Roger?” John asks.

Freddie shrugs, wandering over to sit on the floor beneath the window.

John shoots Brian a look before standing and ambling toward the kitchen, presumably to make dinner. Brian waits until he’s out of sight and the apartment has gone still before turning to look at Freddie, to take in his shadowed eyes and pale skin. Slowly, as gradually as he can, he stands and crosses the room to sit just out of arm’s reach of him, plucking his guitar from its stand and strumming a few chords. It isn’t plugged in, the strings ringing just loudly enough that they fill the space between the two of them.

Freddie’s shoulders start to relax midway through an ambling play on an old Zeppelin riff; by the time Brian’s drifted into his own song he’s been working on Freddie is all but slumped into himself.

“I told Kash,” he says quietly.

Brian stills. “About us?”

He nods.

“Are you okay?”

Another nod. “It felt good.”

He falls silent at that and Brian goes gradually back to his playing, waiting him out.

After a few long minutes he speaks again. “Why is Roger mad at us?” he mumbles.

“I don’t know, Fred,” Brian sighs.

“He won’t even look at me half the time. He barely lets me touch him. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

“I’ve noticed.” Brian stops plucking at his guitar finally, letting it rest in his lap. “I think he’s more upset with himself than anything. If he was mad at us he’d let us know about it.”

“Is he gonna leave us?”

Brian’s eyes snap up. “Freddie,” he starts.

“He’s been treating me like he doesn’t even know me. Like,” he blinks fiercely against tears welling in his eyes; they don’t fall, but they don’t go away. “He’s acting like we’re strangers. One of the people who knows me best in the world, and he’s treating me like we’re barely even friends.”

“I don’t know,” Brian murmurs. “He’s been the same to me. He’s been the same to John. Freddie, I don’t know. I think we’ll just have to ask him.”

Freddie sniffles, turning back to the window. They sit in silence for a long moment. When he finally speaks his voice is rough. “What were you playing?”

Brian runs his fingers over the strings restlessly. “Just something I’m working on.”

“Play it again. Let me hear.”

 

Roger stays at the shop as late as he can possibly manage and then kills a few hours running through some of the other stores. He stops for a few drinks at the pub before finally returning home, night officially wasted away successfully. When he opens the apartment it’s silent and dark, and he’d be proud of himself if he didn’t feel so pathetic.

He hates this. He hates this feeling that something isn’t right, that things are falling apart around him. It always inevitably comes to this, and he was stupid to think the four of them were somehow exempt; that they were special and that this could last.

There’s a certain irony to the fact that as soon as his family found out about his relationship the loves of his life began winding up to throw it to the wayside.

Their room is dark and warm when he opens the door, carrying the familiar smells of sleep and safety and home. He undresses quickly and climbs into the edge of the bed, scooting closer to Freddie’s back but unsure if he’s allowed to touch him, even in sleep.

It’s Freddie who answers that question. He must’ve been lying there awake because he reaches back and takes hold of Roger’s wrist, dragging it around his own waist and linking their hands together before settling again. With nothing left to do Roger pulls him even closer into his chest and ingrains the feeling into his skin: Freddie’s breathing, his warmth, his smell and the softness of his hair. He doesn’t think Freddie notices when through his exhaustion and the lingering haze of alcohol he lets a few tears slip out. If he does he’s kind enough not to pretend to offer false comfort.

 

_wednesday_

 

Brian wakes to shouting.

“—pretend you’re happy when you’re not because it’s driving me crazy!”

“If you want to be done with me just tell me!”

Brian sighs, getting out of bed quickly. There’s no way this is going anywhere good. He pushes the bedroom door open only to be met with Freddie and Roger standing a few paces apart in the hallway. John is edging out from the kitchen into the already cramped hallway, looking between the two of them with wide eyes.

“I’m not the one who’s trying to throw this away!” Freddie snaps.

“I know,” Roger snaps, then deflates. “I know you’re not. You wouldn’t. You want someone else to do it for you.”

“Roger, what are you saying?” John asks softly.

Roger swallows, then shakes his head. He pushes past Freddie with startling gentleness, gathering his jacket. “I can’t do this,” he says.

“Roger,” Freddie calls, reaching for his arm.

Roger shrugs him off. “I said I can’t do this.” He opens the door, and then he’s gone.

The three of them stand there silently for a long moment, shocked. It’s John who moves first, wordlessly snatching his coat off its hook and all but sprinting out the door.

“I should go after him,” Freddie says.

“You should let him cool off.”

“He thinks I hate him.”

“He knows you don’t,” Brian says soothingly, furiously quelling the prickle of uncertainty in his gut.

“He knows I can’t tell my parents about us. He knows I can’t do it. He hates me for it.”

“Fred, he doesn’t hate you.”

“You don’t know that,” Freddie breathes, and Brian isn’t sure what to say.

John bursts back into the apartment. “Where are the car keys?”

Brian gestures to the hook. “He didn’t take the van?”

“No. I’m gonna check the usual spots and see if I can find him.”

Brian nods, watching him go. Freddie is still staring dejectedly at the wall and hesitantly Brian steps a little closer. “He doesn’t hate you. He has nothing to hate you for. He said himself that he doesn’t care what we do as long as we’re happy.”

Freddie says nothing.

He can practically hear the gears turning in his head from here. “You don’t have to tell your family,” he ventures. “Is that what this is about? You don’t have to tell them, not if you don’t want to. None of us will hold it against you.”

“You’re going to tell your parents,” Freddie says with absolute certainty.

“That doesn’t matter.”

“So you are.”

Brian lets out a slow breath. “I’ve been meaning to for some time,” he admits. “I think I was waiting for a sign or something. It’s silly. It’s only once this happened that I realized I don’t need one. I can do it whenever I want.” He watches Freddie for a reaction but doesn’t get one. “Now feels right, though. I want to do it. I think it’s about time.”

Freddie nods silently, turning that over.

“I don’t want to pressure you,” Brian goes on. “Don’t let this change anything, okay? Don’t let it influence your decisions. Do whatever you need to.”

“You’re not pressuring me. Darling, you’re not.” He swallows. “I can’t do it. Not yet. I’ll figure something out, though.”

 

At noon John returns to the flat to inform them that Roger is nowhere to be found.

At two he finally tires of hearing Roger’s words replay in his head. He knows Roger will only be coming home in his own time, and will only be doing so to gather his things and walk out of their lives; the thought sits with even heavier certainty as each minute passes.

At two fourteen he cracks open the new bottle of gin sitting on the counter and doesn’t think for a while.

Hours pass by in a blur after that. He lies on the couch and watches the light from the window travel along the ceiling and then slip off it and onto the wall. The bottle is a quarter of the way empty. He doesn’t look at Brian sitting across the room pretending to read through his notes. He never writes anything down and never turns a page. John can feel his eyes on him. He takes another drink.

The light slips off the wall and disappears. They usually start making dinner around now. It’s his turn to cook but he isn’t hungry and can’t gather the motivation. Brian still hasn’t turned a page. He’s looking out the window instead. John doesn’t know how long he’s been staring like that. The bottle is a third of the way empty. His glass is empty, too. He frowns and is about to fill it again when Freddie bursts into the room, throwing his coat on.

Brian’s head snaps up. “Where are you going?”

“Out.”

“Freddie, we don’t know where he is.”

“Then I guess I’ll just have to find him,” he replies. The door slams behind him.

John lays back down and stares at the ceiling. He doesn’t relax, because he can’t. He doesn’t cry, because he won’t.

 

He’s on cosmo number four at this particular locale when Freddie finally catches up to him.

“You can’t be here,” Roger slurs. “How’d you even find me?”

“You didn’t exactly make it easy. I’ve been to eleven bars.”

“No,” Roger says more adamantly. “You can’t be here. I’m not ready yet.”

“Ready for what?” Freddie asks him.

“For you to dump me,” Roger says flippantly, rolling his eyes to hide the fact that they’re watering again. The bartender gives him a tired look. “I told you I couldn’t do it yet.”

“I’m not here to dump you,” Freddie says patiently. “I’m here to bring you home.”

“I know you’ve been mad since my family found out because now you think you have to tell yours,” Roger continues as if he never spoke. “You don’t need to. I’m not mad at you about that. I guess you won’t need to tell them now anyway, though.”

“Roger,” Freddie says crisply. “I’m not here to break up with you. I thought you were trying to break up with _me._ ”

Roger gives him an uncomprehending look. “What?”

“You’ve been distant this whole week and you barely let me touch you! Roger, we haven’t had sex in _four days._ No sex! Of any kind! That’s practically unheard of!” The bartender frowns at him and Freddie glares back. “Oh, piss off. The point,” he adds, turning back to Roger, “is I thought you were mad at me! I thought maybe you didn’t even love me anymore. I was never trying to break up with you!”

Roger frowns into the dregs of his drink. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Freddie says sharply, shoulders slumping.

“But you were all so cold right after I told you,” Roger ventures quietly. “Everyone looked so sad. I thought I ruined everything.”

“We’ve all been thinking,” Freddie replies. “I’m sorry if I’ve been distant. I’ve been trying to figure out what I’m going to do. But then you got so cold toward us all, like you didn’t even know us. I thought you were getting ready to dump us.”

“I was trying to get ready for you to dump _me_ ,” Roger says. His tears finally spill over, leaving his face blotchy. “I wanted to get ready so when you guys told me it wouldn’t be so bad.”

“Darling,” Freddie sighs. His arms come around Roger’s shoulders and Roger sniffles pathetically. “How could we? The three of us couldn’t function without you. We love you, Roger.”

Usually when he says stuff like that it warms him from the inside. This time it stings, like running warm water over fingers that have been out in the cold a little too long.

“Come on. Come home. Come back to us.”

Roger stares at the last sip of liquor in his glass. He leaves it behind as Freddie tugs him away and out into the night.

 

“I cut John off,” Brian says as he opens the door for them. He’s shirtless, marks from a few days prior still scattered across his chest, sleep making his eyelids droopy, legs clad in worn pajama pants with stars on them that aren’t quite long enough for his legs. He looks sleepy and soft and Freddie’s heart flops over in his chest.  

If his flops over Roger’s must be doing cartwheels. He tugs himself out of Freddie’s hold and falls into Brian’s arms; Brian accepts him with a startled grunt, but all Roger does is try to hide his entire face in Brian’s hair while simultaneously fusing them both into one entity if the strength of his grip is anything to go by.

“And I cut Roger off,” Freddie replies. Brian raises his eyebrows.

“I love you so much,” Roger says, voice muffled. “ _So much._ I’ve loved you since I first saw you. When I fell in love with you your hair was still a weird afro and all your riffs sounded kind of the same. And I still loved them all because I loved you! And I still love you! I’d never break up with you. Why would you think I’d break up with you?”

Brian shoots Freddie a helpless look.

“Roger, baby,” Freddie says. “Brian loves you, too. Come let me help you wash up, okay?”

“Where’s John?”

“John’s laying down for a minute,” Brian says softly. “Go wash up and then you can see him, okay? I love you too, Rog. You know that.”

Roger lets Freddie lead him to the bathroom with minimal reluctance, holding still as Freddie carefully cleans the tear tracks off his cheeks and wipes his skin down with a warm cloth until he doesn’t smell quite so badly of stale cigarettes and beer anymore. “Can you brush your teeth for me?”

“A good oral hygiene routine is the number one safeguard against cavities,” Roger recites.

Freddie takes that as a yes and steps out of the bathroom, closing the door softly behind him. Brian is a shadow waiting in the hallway. Freddie wordlessly pulls him close and lets out a breath when Brian returns the hold just as quickly.

They stand there silently for a long moment, just taking in each others’ warmth. “You alright?” Brian finally whispers.

Freddie nods numbly, and Brian rubs a soothing hand up his back. They’re alright. All four of them will be alright.

The bathroom door swings open, a rectangle of light sliding across the hallway before Roger weaves through it.

“Rog,” Brian calls, casting Freddie a worried look. “Come drink some water before bed.”

It’s a sorry indication of his mental state that Roger follows him to the kitchen without even a sarcastic retort.

It leaves Freddie alone in the hallway. He goes back into the bathroom and washes his face carefully, then spends a long minute staring in the mirror. The same eyes that he’s been seeing all week look back: shadowed, tired, sad in a way he doesn’t quite know how to address.

He looks away quickly and goes about getting ready to go to sleep.

Roger and Brian are still in the kitchen when he comes out again. He can hear nothing but the rolling murmur of Brian’s voice as he speaks. He thinks about going to check on them, but they don’t need him right now. Everyone has their own feathers to smooth.

He crosses into the bedroom instead, feeling his way through the darkness until he hits the bed. He crawls over the lump that he knows must be John, curling up behind him and pulling him close. John remains a stiff shape in his arms.

“You awake?” Freddie murmurs. When he noses at the back of John’s neck it he can smell the lingering note of gin against his skin.

“Is Roger back?” John asks, voice terse and a bit too loud in the silence of the room. If he tenses any more he might tremble under the force or simply snap.

“I found him. He came back.”

“Is he still gonna—” he starts, then cuts himself off when his voice wobbles.

“No, honey,” Freddie murmurs. “It’s alright. It was just a big misunderstanding. It was just me and him being idiots.”

“I thought one of you was going to leave.”

“No. We love each other. All four of us love each other.”

“I thought you were going to stop talking to each other,” John says, voice level like he’s working hard to keep it that way. “We wouldn’t be able to play together anymore. I love Brian but a bassist and a guitarist alone would make a pretty shitty band. And I thought about what would happen if we had to choose sides, or if Rog stopped talking to me because I was still talking to you, and—”

“None of that matters,” Freddie says. He curls tighter around him and John links their fingers together tightly over his chest, his body still wracked with a faint tremor. “We’re all still here. Me and Roger fight sometimes. You know that. We all fight sometimes.”

“Not like that,” John replies.

The door swings open and Roger’s silhouette glides through, a little more sure footed than before. He barely pauses to undress before he’s sliding between the sheets to make a place for himself against John’s chest. Freddie feels John release a full-body shudder, but Roger just presses closer to him and flings an arm over his waist, fingertips brushing Freddie’s back.

“We all had it backwards, that’s all,” Roger whispers. “It was just a stupid fight. I love you.”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” John says. There’s a wobble in his voice.

“I know.” Roger lets out a sad laugh. “We’re horrible. We love each other a lot, though. We love you a lot. We’d never throw that away.” The light from the hallway is just bright enough for Freddie to watch as he pulls John closer, holding onto him the way he’s been holding all of them every night this week: gentle yet tight at the same time like he wants to imprint their shape into his skin but is all too afraid of crushing them entirely.

The light flicks off and the mattress dips as Brian scoots in. The room is pitch black and Freddie can’t quite locate him, but when he reaches out toward Roger’s hip he feels cool fingers against his own. It’s one of the endless ways he’s learned to know his lovers from one another, and he traces the sides of their fingers together as he links their hands: velvet-soft skin but a rough edge along his first finger, callused fingertips, sharp-knuckled with delicate bones like a bird’s. He squeezes his hand once and hears Brian sigh softly before squeezing back.

 

_thursday_

 

They relearn each other in the cool hours of morning, grey light of dawn just beginning to filter through and soften all the edges that had been grating so long throughout the week. It’s a slow and careful exploration of hands and bodies amid warm sheets, a building of love and sensation so slow John thinks he could scream from it. He doesn’t, can’t get a sound out, just gasps through everything and lets it wash over him in a way he can’t remember having done even during his first time. They were all over-eager trembling hands and false bravado back then. It feels like it was years ago. They’re old souls now, with all the time in the world.  

Through it all he doesn’t speak. It’s a warm and heavy quiet that weighs the words down in his chest. He doesn’t need them; the four of them already know. This is love like a blanket of snow or the glow of sunshine on skin, an inherent part of the world that need not be mentioned. It passes through their lips on each gasp and sigh, is carried between them with each brush of fingers like electricity. He says it like that, a brush of fingertips. _I love you so much I want to shout it out._ A caress meets his own, and he hears the words in his head. _We know because we love you, too._

In the aftermath, the afterglow still roaring through his veins, Brian’s heartbeat strong and gradually slowing against his back, he feels it like a drug. His eyelids are drooping again but he can’t shut them, can’t look away from Roger as he straddles Freddie and watches him with hazy eyes, lips parted for breath as they move in unison. Freddie’s hands reach up carefully to steady him and make their movements even slower and deeper and Roger’s head tips back, hair catching the first rays of sunlight.

Freddie turns his head to meet John’s gaze and it shimmers through him all the way down to his toes like lightning, a bubbling bolt of sparks looking for a way to escape. He wonders distantly if it’ll leave a scar the way electricity does or if it’ll travel through his skin into Brian’s instead: the warmth of their love like a living thing, fickle and needy but still so lovely, lighting them all up.

Freddie catches his lips, still breathing heavily in time with Roger through his nose, teeth grazing his lips before his tongue slips between them, and John fights through the last golden dregs of pleasure to trace his cheek with clumsy fingers. He feels Brian kissing slowly down his neck, hears Roger sigh shakily. They’re tearing each other apart, he knows. They’re deconstructing this whole thing brick by brick, but they’ll build it better. They’ll build it stronger and more beautiful: a perfect home where they can live and love and fuck and fight and exist just like this, just like they are now.

Just one day left.

He basks in their love and lets it warm him from the inside out.

After is when the words come: after, lying in the tangled warmth of their bed, the four of them breathing each other in.

“I shouldn’t have said it all like it was an ultimatum,” Roger says.

John rolls his head to look at him, but Roger is blinking up at the ceiling.

“It doesn’t matter what you guys do, alright? I couldn’t care less. I love you and I’m proud of you no matter what.”

“We know, Roger,” Brian says softly.

“I’ll spend all day proving it to you if I have to. I’ll spend all my life.”

“We know. We do. We love you, too.”

“No, I don’t want you to just nod this off. I fucked up. I really did.”

“Roger,” John says finally, and Roger meets his eyes. “We know you’re sorry. We’re sorry, too. This all got blown out of proportion, alright? It isn’t a big deal.”

“Not a big deal? This almost ended us!”

“But it didn’t. It won’t. It’s alright.”

Roger sighs, rolling over finally so he can throw an arm around his shoulders and scratch his fingers through John’s hair. Freddie grunts at the loss of warmth, burrowing into Brian instead. “If all I ever got was this,” Roger starts seriously, “if my whole life was just lying here with you three, I’d take it.”

John laughs. “You’re lying.”

Roger scoffs, hint of a smile creeping in. “Am not!”

“You are too. There’s so much more to life than just that. Think of all you’d miss out on. You’d never be able to play drums.”

“So?”

“You wouldn’t ever be able to drive again.”

“That’s hardly a problem,” Roger says haughtily.

“No more bars. No more grinding in the clubs and making out in the back alleys.”

“You’ve got a dirty mind.”

“No more fucking in the kitchen.”

“We entertain guests there,” Brian says drily.

“And each other, apparently,” Freddie laughs.

“No more,” John continues, pausing for effect, “dental school.”

“What? No more dental school?” Roger gasps. “My one true passion? Well, if proving my love is what you want me to do then I guess I’ll have to make sacrifices. I won’t step foot in the dental college today if it means showing you how much I love you.”

“That’s what you’re going to do?”

“Oh yes,” Roger says, kissing the corner of his mouth between words. “All. Day. Long.”

“Roger, you can’t skip school to fuck us all day. Hell, _I_ can’t skip school to be fucked all day.”

“And I can’t be fucked to go to school,” Freddie mutters under his breath.

“You’re all going to class,” Brian says. When John meets his eyes he looks dead serious, but he can hear the laugh hidden in his voice. “I can’t get it up when I know two of my bedmates are probably flunking out because of me.”

“Two?” Roger asks incredulously.

“John’s fine. He’s on track to graduate with honors,” he adds with a touch of pride.

They’re all more than aware of the fact, but John squirms from the praise anyway. “Does that mean I can stay home and be fucked all day?”

“John, _no._ ”

“Darling, the education system is already fucking me,” Freddie announces loftily. “How about we stay home and make it a gangbang?”

“Freddie, don’t encourage them.”

 

Brian makes them all breakfast. It’s partially because it’s his turn and partially because he feels guilty in advance for shooing them out of the door earlier than usual. There’s not much to be done; he needs the extra time.

As soon as they’re gone he scrubs the kitchen spotless, then polishes the table, then vacuums the floors. He moves some of the shoes that have accumulated in the front hall into the closet. He even polishes his guitar before resting it back in its stand in the living room, right next to John’s bass. Then he polishes that for good measure, too.

He finishes four cups of tea. The caffeine makes his fingers shake but helps with little else. He checks the clock. He thinks about another cup of tea. He thinks about a drink. He thinks about the items in the pocket of the jacket Freddie and Roger trade; how he’d found them during the last laundry day and returned them to their place before hanging it back up in the closet.

And that’s how he winds up sitting on the stoop of their building five minutes later, fingers numb from the cold, internally cursing all the powers that be.

The lighter isn’t working.

He blows into the little hole on the top quickly, trying to warm it with his breath. This isn’t something he does. This isn’t something he’s practiced in, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

He flicks it again but nothing happens. The paper between his lips feels soggy and a little slimy. Cursing, he flicks the lighter over and over, fingers fumbling against the metal.

“That one doesn’t work.”

When he looks up Roger is staring back at him, book bag slung over his shoulder and sunglasses on. Brian slumps against the bannister, defeated. “You’re supposed to be in class.”

“My twelve o’clock got cancelled,” he says with a teasing smile. “Besides, you’re supposed to be a champion against smoking, yet here you are stealing mine. Does that make you the pot or the kettle?”

Brian feels frustrated tears prick at his eyes.

“Woah. Hey,” Roger says, coming closer quickly. His sunglasses come off, eyes wide and concerned. “What’s wrong? It’s alright. I’m not mad.”

“I know,” he grits out, anger bubbling up. “I’m not upset. I’m fine.”

He can feel Roger watching him even as he carefully avoids looking up. “You don’t seem fine,” Roger says.

“My parents are coming.”

“Oh,” Roger says, lost.

“I’m gonna tell them.”

“... _Oh._ ”

“It’s not,” he starts, then trails off when he realizes the sentence has no conclusion. “I don’t know how they’re going to take it. I thought none of you would be home for a while because I didn’t want you to be around if it goes badly. I don’t want them to freak out or anything like that.”

“Baby,” Roger says, hushed.

“They’re probably going to freak out anyway. I’m trying to think of the worst thing that can happen so I’ll be ready for it. They could disown me, I suppose. Or they could make me stop seeing you guys.”

“You’re an adult,” Roger supplies. “I think they’d have a little trouble with that.”

“Well I have to be ready, don’t I?” He wracks his brain. What else? They’ve always been supportive of him in the past, but he’s sure they could find a way to make him move out if they wanted to. It isn’t like them, but they could do it. He puts the cigarette back between his lips and flicks desperately at the lighter again, watching it spark pathetically a few times.

Roger is right in his face suddenly, taking the lighter from his fingers carefully. “Stop it,” he murmurs, tugging the cigarette out of his mouth and putting both items in his pocket before taking Brian’s hands in his own and sitting down beside him. His skin is very warm. “Stop it, Brian. Look at me.”

Brian does, slowly.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he says, his gaze steady and his voice sure.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. It’s going to be alright. You don’t have to do this today if you don’t want to. You don’t ever have to do it if you don’t want to.”

“No, I need to. I need to do it today.”

“Because of me or because of you? Because I don’t want you to do it for me.”

“I want to do it. For all four of us,” Brian says adamantly. “I’m tired, Rog. I don’t want to hide anymore.”

Roger holds his gaze for a moment before kissing the back of each hand. “No matter what happens we’ll be here. Me and Freddie and Deaky, we wouldn’t trade this for anything. We love you—I love you. No matter what happens I’m so, so proud of you.”

The conflicting feelings are choking him and making his eyes flood: overwhelming panic and fear and love and comfort. It reminds him of being a child on the playground, falling down and scraping his knees and being pulled into his mother’s arms so that she could kiss it better. It’s going to be alright. _It’s going to be alright._

Numb, Brian nods.

Roger leans up to kiss him, just the barest brush of lips in the most gentle touch Brian can remember. No doubt he can feel the way Brian’s lips are trembling, but he doesn’t do anything to acknowledge it other than soothing over them with his own. Just as softly as he came he leans back, and Brian lets the hovering gravity of that space tug at his nerves for an achingly long moment before he leans down himself to brush their lips together again. He untangles their fingers to frame Roger’s face gently, to graze his fingertips against his hair and trace his thumbs over the porcelain of his cheeks as lightly as if he were utterly fragile even when he knows exactly how strong Roger can be. He feels Roger’s fingers tug at the fabric of his sleeves and allows himself this one tiny moment of peace.

When they both lean back again it’s with their foreheads still pressed together. He lets the rhythm of Roger’s breath wash over him and falls into the beat of him as easily as he ever does. This is the two of them, Roger keeping him sure and steady as he makes up the rest, stepping into the abyss and knowing one of them will catch him. This is the two of them, occupying each other’s space here on the walkway up to their building. This is them, growing up together. It’ll be alright.

Something hits the pavement.

It’s a box of cookies, and it’s fallen before two familiar pairs of shoes. He follows those up to two familiar figures, two familiar faces, two familiar sets of eyes open wide with shock.

His mother looks like she might cry. His father just looks confused, mouth agape in a way that under any circumstances he’d find comical.

They’re still pressed close enough together that he can feel Roger’s gasp as if it were his own.

 

Roger nearly bowls John over as he rushes for the tube, John just climbing out of the stairs as he flips through spotify distractedly. He starts, sees it’s Roger and then grins as he tugs out an earbud.

“Come with me,” Roger shushes him before he can speak, dragging him back into the tube.

John frowns but allows himself to be dragged back down the stairs. “Where are we going?”

“We can’t be home right now. Come on.”

They walk silently until they’re standing on the platform waiting for the train. He can feel John’s eyes on him and when he turns it’s to a worried frown. “What’s going on, Roger?” he asks.

Roger swallows. “Brian’s parents know.”

“What? About—"

Roger nods.

John is silent for a moment. “That’s—shouldn’t that be good? At least he told them.”

“He didn’t tell them.”

“Oh. They walked in on you?”

“Not doing anything indecent! Jesus, John!”

John rolls his eyes. “Knowing you two—”

“No! We were barely even kissing! It was very chaste! ‘Knowing you two,’” he repeats mockingly, flicking the now-fading but still very clear imprint of Brian’s teeth peeking out from John’s collar. John yelps. “You’re one to talk!”

“Alright!” John says, frowning again. They stand in silence for a moment longer. “Is he okay?” he murmurs finally.

Roger lets out a breath. “He stole my cigarettes.” When John’s head whips around he holds up his hands. “Didn’t smoke any. You know half my lighters don’t even work.”

“That bad?”

“Yeah, they’re all really old.”

“No, _him._ ”

“Oh. Yeah. He was pretty bad. I think he was ready once they came, but he looked like he was marching to the gallows or something. I wish he’d never called them.”

“Don’t say that,” John murmurs. “It’s his choice.”

“No, it isn’t. I know I drove him to this. I know he thinks he’s making me happy.”

“What, you don’t think he could be doing it for me and Freddie, too? For himself?”

“Don’t say what happened last weekend wasn’t some sort of catalyst,” Roger argues.

John shoots him another flat look. “That doesn’t mean he didn’t choose to do this. Unless you were the one who called his parents there I don’t think you can take credit for this.”

“That logic doesn’t add up and you know it,” Roger says.

“Do I? So if I were to tell my mum and my sister tomorrow that would be on you, even though I’m fully aware that at this point you’d rather I didn’t no matter the reason simply because you think you’re responsible if there’s fallout?”

“Are you going to tell them?” Roger says, turning fully to look at him.

John runs his tongue over his teeth, turning so they’re toe to toe. “Are you going to blame yourself if I am?”

“Yes!”

“Then no. No, as far as you’re concerned I’m not telling them.”

“John,” Roger says.

“This is my choice. Practically everything I do, I do for you three. This is one of the exceptions. This is about me and my family. It’s my call.”

“Are you doing it?”

“Why does it matter?”

“I don’t want to drive you to do something you don’t want to,” Roger insists. “I never wanted to make you all so miserable. I just want you to be happy.”

“We are happy,” John says boredly.

“You were happy before. You were happy before we all started talking about this, when things were the same as always. You guys just wanted things to stay the same and I was the one who messed that up. It isn’t too late, though. You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“I want to.”

“You didn’t want to before,” he argues.

“But you wanted to be honest before,” John says levelly. “That’s what you want more than anything. You like being honest about your feelings and your life. You didn’t choose for this to happen but it did, and you’re okay with that because you’ve always liked being honest about love. That’s what makes you happy.”

Roger nods numbly.

John’s eyes turn hard. “If that’s what makes you happy then why are we not allowed to support you in that?”

Roger blinks. “John—”

“No. If you’re happy when you can hold our hands in front of our families then why should we keep you from that? Are we supposed to let you consider our happiness and not consider yours in return? Not consider each other’s? You can make sacrifices for us but we can’t do the same for you?”

“It’s different _._ ”

“So we don’t love you, too?”

Roger swallows; oh, but he’s angry now. It’s so rare to see their little Deaky get like this.

“I love you more than—” he starts, then takes a breath, pinning Roger with a glare. “Do you know how much I love the three of you? I didn’t think I could love anyone like that. I didn’t think I ever would. Did you think for a second I wouldn’t want to tell the whole world exactly what that feels like? Loving three people so much I feel like I’m going to explode from it, like I can barely breathe around it?”

“John,” he starts, but John shakes his head.

“You don’t think we should do this because you don’t want us to do it for you. That’s the stupidest thing I think I’ve ever heard you say, just so you know—to imply that we wouldn’t do anything in the world for you if you asked. I don’t think there’s a single thing I wouldn’t do for you,” he says with a brittle laugh. “Roger, do you know that? That isn’t the point, though. The point is I’m not doing this for you. I’m not doing it for Freddie and I’m not doing it for Brian, okay? I’m doing it for me, because it’s what I want.”

The train stops abruptly on the platform, people rushing to and fro as the doors open. John steps closer so they don’t become separated in the rush, holding Roger steady with a hand on his shoulder. He’s close enough that when Roger breathes his hair flutters, close enough that he can smell his soap. Then all at once he steps back, trugging Roger onto the train behind him and gently nudging him into a seat. A man is getting off the train as they go; John stops him in his tracks with a hand on his chest, pushing him lightly into the seat beside Roger. He lets out a little huff of surprise as he sits, familiar scarves and satins flaring out as he does, and Roger blinks as he recognizes the third member of their little quartet.

“Fancy seeing you here, Freddie,” Roger says dazedly.

Freddie looks back and forth between the two of them. “Any reason we’re not getting off? This is our stop, you know.”

“Brian needs some time alone,” John says.

“Oh. Is everything alright? I thought we were all okay this morning.”

“His parents came over,” Roger says. “They saw us.”

“Oh, they saw you three shagging?”

Roger frowns indignantly. “No—”

“It was just Bri and Rog shagging, actually,” John supplies helpfully.

Roger glares at him. “John, you know that’s not what happened.”

Freddie snickers. “Well, if he needs time he needs time. It’s a good thing I know an excellent cafe up here. If we’re going to wait we might as well wait in style.”

John shakes his head wryly and bumps their shoulders together. Roger lets out a long, slow breath.

 

“We brought you a scone,” Freddie says a little unnecessarily, putting the bag on the coffee table. “It’s vegan but the chocolate chips are shaped like little hearts and it made me think of you. And I got you a latte because I know you like white chocolate and I thought you might be up all night anyway so it wouldn’t matter.”

Brian smiles a tiny smile, taking the cup and hunching over it on the couch. “Love you.”

“How’d it go?”

He nods once to himself. “Good. It went pretty good, actually.”

“Yeah.” He swallows before raising his voice slightly. “Guys, you don’t—you can come over if you want. I know you’re listening anyway.”

Roger looks up guiltily from the sauce he’s stirring on the stove. “We aren’t eavesdropping.”

“This is a four-way relationship. You’re actually allowed to hear stuff like this, believe it or not.”

John meanders over like he’s still trying to pretend he wasn’t listening in the first place, but Roger all but glues himself to Brian’s side as soon as he sits down on the couch. “What happened?” he murmurs.

Brian winces. “After you left they actually took it pretty well.”

(“So you’ve been seeing Roger for how long now?”

“The same amount of time I’ve been seeing John and Freddie, mum,” he says patiently.

“But you’ve known him for years!”

“Did you’d think I’d start dating him the minute we met?” he asks, a bit incredulously.

“Don’t talk back to your mother like that,” his father says quietly.

Brian takes a deep breath. “Sorry,” he says. “We were friends a lot longer than I knew John and Freddie, but the four of us got together on the same day.”

The two of them are silent for a long moment. “I suppose we always knew Freddie was a little…” his father starts, then trails off and wiggles his hand back and forth.

Brian raises his eyebrows. “A little what, exactly?”

“Well you know, Brian.”

“Did you always know that I was that way, too?” he asks quietly.

His mum sighs, hurt. “Brian,” she starts.

Brian fiddles with his teacup.

“We just thought you liked girls. What ever happened to Chrissie?”

“You’re not serious.”

“Well, she was so good for you—”

“Chrissie was lovely,” his father adds. “What a charming young woman.”

“She really brought out the best in you, Brian,” his mother adds.

He sighs, putting his hands down. “Chrissie and I weren’t gonna work out.”

“She was so well-mannered, though. You really shouldn’t be so quick to throw people away like that.”

“Chrissie dumped me because it was blatantly obvious to everybody that I was in love with three other people!”

“Brian,” his mum says, hushed.

“Chrissie could see how unhappy I was! She was good for me because she finally got me to realize I couldn’t just stop loving my best friends, okay? She knew that I was fucking miserable—”

“Language,” his father cuts in.

He deflates a little. “Sorry,” he says, and goes back to fiddling with his teacup. “I’m happy now though, guys. I’m so, so happy. This isn’t really a debate. I’m not going to throw away the one good thing that’s happened to me recently. I just need you to understand that.”

Silence reigns over the kitchen again. He really should have put some music on or something. This is a little awkward.

“You’re happy?” his father asks.

“Yes.”

His parents share a look he can’t quite decipher.)

“As well as it could’ve gone, anyway,” he says with a shrug, taking a sip of his coffee. It mostly tastes like sugar, the bitterness hiding just under the creamy sweetness of it, and he sighs happily. Roger’s arm is pressed against his left shoulder, Freddie’s against his right. Not to be left out, John takes a seat on the coffee table close enough that their knees touch. “They’re not entirely happy but they aren’t going to disown me or anything.”

“That’s good,” John says hesitantly.

Brian nods to himself. “Yeah, I suppose so. And I think they’ll probably take a little time to warm up to the idea,” he adds with a burst of optimism. “These things take time, don’t they? We didn’t exactly ease them into it.”

“You’re right,” Freddie says with an easy smile. “I swear to you, a few months and they’ll be calling us over to tea every Sunday.”

“You think so?”

“Oh, I’m sure of it!”

Brian ducks his head, smiling to himself. A moment later he looks back up when two fingers direct his jaw the other way. Roger kisses him chastely before smiling sweetly. “Proud of you,” he says.

John tangles their ankles together and gives him one of his tiny coy smiles, and Brian can’t stop himself from smiling back.

 

Roger makes freakishly good lasagna. He can barely make toast, but for some reason stacking sauce and noodles comes naturally to him. Once this is done he proceeds to keep giving Brian extra portions until he’s literally incapable of eating any more and once _that’s_ done he lays him down in bed and sucks him off for easily half an hour, until Brian feels like he’s either going to die or start crying out of frustration. And then he takes care of the other two and gives Brian a good view of it all, and then he takes care of himself, and then he collapses backward and nearly falls asleep instantly.

“You don’t need to keep trying to make up for stuff,” Brian whispers to him.

“I’m not,” he whispers back, and normally Brian wouldn’t believe him but the grin he shoots him is so full of happiness and satisfaction it’s hard to doubt. “I just like taking care of you guys.”

That night he dreams he’s floating through space, swimming through constellations and grazing his fingertips through nebulae. He’s holding his breath as he goes but he’s completely content, not a worry in his mind about running out of air. Freddie swims by and laughs rapidly as he goes, his chest brushing against Brian’s in passing, a glossy gold tail where his legs would normally be. Brian thinks about hurrying to catch up but he knows he has all the time in the world; he can carry on and be content in the knowledge that John and Roger are somewhere nearby and that he’ll see all three of them soon, somewhere between here and the next galaxy over.

 

_friday_

 

On Friday John wakes up long before the others. He slips out of bed and gets dressed quietly, pausing before he leaves to look back at the bed one last time: Roger tucked under Freddie’s chin, Brian sprawled along his back with his face buried in the tangle of blond hair and his lips moving as he mumbles to himself, his arm sprawled out to pillow Freddie’s head. One of them is breathing in a snuffle that could almost be qualified as a snore but John can’t tell who. He smiles as he leaves the bedroom.

He forgoes the tube and walks the entire way instead, using the time to clear his head. It’s a long way but it feels good to get out, especially with how hectic the day has been.

When he finally gets to his destination he takes a deep breath before walking through the gate.

 

“I think you’d really like them,” John says.

There's no reply. He traces the marble below his fingers thoughtfully. He can’t feel the smoothness of its texture beneath his calluses, but the coolness is nice. It’s cold enough that he can register it even through the thick layers of skin. Grounding.

He takes a deep breath. “I told you about them. I probably talk about them a bit too much,” he adds with a quiet laugh. “I met Roger first and then Freddie and Brian came later, and it all just kind of happened. I think I loved them before I even knew what was happening and it all fell in place.”

He thinks about the way Freddie touches Brian’s arm when they laugh over something together. He thinks about Roger muttering to himself as he tries to carry four mugs of diligently prepared tea to the couch. He thinks about waking up with them, falling asleep with them, sharing space and fighting and loving and _being._

He clears his throat. “I know maybe it’s a bit cowardly, but I thought I’d tell you first. I don't know what mom will say. I think she’s known for a while that—that I’m never gonna have a girlfriend. I think she’s always kind of known. Hopefully she won't be disappointed. She’s always wanted grandchildren but maybe Julie will have kids, right? Or there’s always adoption. Or—god, I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I?”

A blade of grass has fallen across the marble and he brushes it away carefully, keeping it from falling into the crevices of the letters carved there and sullying them. He looks up at the sky above, clouds rolling quickly across endless blue.

“I've got tea with her and Jules in a bit, so I’ve got to go. Wish me luck,” he says jokingly, because something inside him tells him his dad would probably get a kick out of it in a dark sort of way. He carefully places the cluster of flowers he'd gathered on the way over at the base of the plaque so they don't blow across it in the wind, standing quickly and blinking the wetness out of his eyes.

He doesn’t look back, just plods back through the cemetery and onto the street toward his mother’s house.

 

Freddie needs to clean out his phone notes at some point.

He really needs to clean out his phone in general, not that the crowded tube is the place to do it.

His lock screen is a photo of the cat that lives at his favorite tea shop licking her paw in the warm light of the afternoon sun filtering through the window. His home screen is different: Brian grinning at the camera, John laughing into one side of his face and Roger neatly kissing the other. It’d been sent to him just after Christmas, a day before he’d been able to return to the apartment but just after the other three had already come home. He remembers smiling over it in his room in his parents’ house and wishing nothing more than that the three of them could’ve been nearby, maybe in the house with him or maybe at the apartment with him at their sides, as it should be.

He opens his notes.

 _Father please forgive me, you know you’ll never leave me,_ he types. _Please will you direct me in the right way?_

The train lurches to a stop and he hops off quickly, chords still running circles around each other in his mind. He should run it by Brian and get a riff worked out. He’s always happy to help with that kind of thing even if he ends up nitpicking it all half to death.

He hums along to the melody mindlessly as he picks through his keyring, jogging up the steps to the building and making his way down the hall. He blessedly only has to wrestle with the key for a second before the door swings open under his touch and then he’s dropping his bag quickly in the entryway. He can laughter deeper in the apartment. A second later Brian appears in the doorway to their bedroom, grinning ear to ear.

“Freddie,” he greets.

“Hi, darling. You wouldn’t believe how crowded the tube was today. I had a new idea for a song though, if you’d like to go over it.”

“You should come back to bed.”

“At two in the afternoon? Not when we have so much to do today.”

A fresh peel of laughter echoes from the bedroom and it sets Brian off giggling, too. “Freddie,” he says again, and all but drags him down the hall.

“Gosh—alright, I’m going!” he mutters, grinning to himself. Brian pushes him gently into the pile of blankets there and he lands beside John, Roger still cackling on his other side. “What’s all this about, then?”

John grins at him. “Hello, Fred.”

“Yes, hello,” he says dryly. “Any reason Roger over there looks like he’s about to piss himself?”

“I told my family about us,” John says patiently.

Freddie furiously tamps down the wave of guilt in favor of putting on a pleased smile. “Excellent. I take it it went well?”

(It went like this:

The tablecloth is different than he pictured, blue instead of yellow. His hands aren’t shaking like he thought they’d be. Julie is sitting at the head of the table, not on the same side as his mother. Not quite the same as the scenario he’d pictured, but that’s probably for the better.

“I’m in love with my three bandmates,” he says, voice shockingly calm, “and they love me back.”

Silence reigns for a few seconds. His mother reaches out to put her hand over both of his. She’s about to say something when Julie bursts out—)

 _“But I’m in love with them too!”_ Roger shrieks, rolling over as he laughs. It sets Brian off again too, and John smiles close-mouthed as he tries to keep his own laughter at bay.

“Yeah, laugh it up. To summarize, my fifteen-year-old sister had aspirations to date all three of you at some point in the distant future and is now disturbed and shocked to know that her brother has taken you all off the market.”

Freddie can’t keep it in anymore; he bursts out laughing. “Oh god,” he gets out.

“Nice to know you guys enjoy my pain so much,” John says.

“I’m sorry, that’s just—” he laughs, then sobers quickly. “Awful. So awful. I’m so sorry.”

“She won’t talk to me anymore,” John continues, though he’s laughing now, too. “She’s really broken up about Roger in particular.”

Roger laughs even harder.

“How’d your mom take it?” Freddie asks.

“Well, actually. Shockingly well.”

“Good,” Freddie murmurs with a grin.

John grins back. “It is, isn’t it?”

 

That night he stares at his reflection in the mirror again. He isn’t sure he knows the man looking back.

He doesn’t sleep.

 

_saturday_

 

He waits until he knows things are the same as always.

The day starts with Roger and Brian trying to elbow each other out of the way to get to the sink, their indignant shouts muffled by toothpaste foam. John burns breakfast because he decided making out with Freddie against the sink was a good idea and forgot to check on the eggs, but they taste wonderful anyway. At noon they rehearse for a few hours, Brian reassuring him when he bemoans the state of his voice, John shooting Roger a skeptical look when the latter tells him he’s dragging, all four of them bickering over harmonies and ornamentations and rhythms until they have something they’re quietly proud of. In the afternoon they settle down to study, but it mostly devolves into Roger flipping through Freddie’s textbook on Picasso and pointing at each painting in turn, announcing how it looks just like Brian. John finds this endlessly amusing until Brian hurls a block of sticky notes at his head, and then everyone finds that endlessly amusing instead.

In the evening Brian brings up the fact that he got a hundred dollar tip from his tutoring gig the day prior and that there’s a new Indonesian place a block over they could try. Freddie makes up his mind in less than a second, announcing to the room at large, “I’m going to my parents’, actually.”

Brian blinks owlishly. “Okay. Wanna go out tomorrow instead?”

Freddie’s already gathering his coat and slipping his shoes on, but he pauses to kiss him slow and firm enough that the lines between them blur together, impressionistic and dreamy. “I’d like that.”

And then he’s out the door.

 

“What’s all that about, then?” John asks, not looking up from the clock radio he’s decided to pick apart.

Brian raises his eyebrows, tilting his head to one side.

 

“You don’t have to do this,” Kashmira reminds him quietly as he hangs up his coat, her voice still thick from her head cold. He can hear their mother fussing around, quickly setting another place at the table after his unexpected arrival.

“If I had a pound for every time someone’s said that to me this week I’d be able to buy Buckingham Palace,” he mutters back.

She snickers.

 

They all feel restless. After an hour of it Brian relents, closes his textbook and puts Bake Off on. The theme song isn’t even over before he has a warm boy sprawled on either side of him, watching raptly.

 

Music is a safe haven for him. It always has been. He’s learned how to manipulate it to his benefit since a very young age. In this situation it works like this:

“Roger, Brian, John and I are romantically involved with one another,” he announces, then puts his fingers on the piano keys and launches into a heartfelt Frank Sinatra tribute. Unable to interrupt his singing and knowing they’d have to yell to be heard above it anyway, his parents say nothing.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Kashmira leave to room in order to hide how hard she’s laughing.

 

“I could make that,” Roger says, gesturing at the elaborate wedding cake on-screen.

John laughs at him.

 

He manages to stretch Fly Me To The Moon out to seven minutes, but unfortunately the outro is a little quiet. He should work on that, because he hears his father clear his throat uneasily at the table behind him.

“What you said about John, Roger and Brian—”

“I’d rather not discuss it, Papa,” he says loftily. “I thought you all should know. I’m not looking for approval, I just think we should all be honest with each other.”

“Would you like me to be honest with you?”

“Not particularly,” he replies, and then decides another seven minute long rendition of the exact same song is appropriate. He’s feeling a little vengeful.

 

“When we’re famous I want to be a Bake Off host,” Roger says.

Brian cranes his neck to nose at the top of his blonde head. “You want to make it as a musician so that you can join a baking show?”

“Yeah. Isn’t that everyone’s goal? John, don’t tell me you don’t want the same thing.”

John nods. “Top Gear. I wanna be The Stig.”

Roger gapes. “No fucking fair. I want to be The Stig!”

“Tough shit. I called it first.”

 

He sneaks back in late at night. The kitchen light is still on and Netflix wants to know if his lovers are still watching. They aren’t, evidently. Brian is asleep with his mouth gaping open, Roger curled up around one of his shoulders and John sprawled backward against the other with his feet hanging over the armrest and Brian’s hand splayed against his chest.

He winces as the door shuts a little too loudly, then winces again as the various bags in his arms rustle. He toes his shoes off silently, but it’s no use; Brian is already blinking awake, looking at him in confusion.

“Freddie,” he murmurs. “It’s late. Was wondering where you were.”

“Well, I had some news for my parents. It took a while to get it all out in the open.”

John huffs, blinking awake slowly before offering Freddie a sleepy grin. Roger mumbles something unintelligible.

“How’d it go?” Brian asks him.

Freddie wordlessly hands him one of the bags and takes in the slow smile that spreads across his face as Brian peeks inside.

(It’d gone like this:

 “Come to the kitchen,” his mother murmurs once his father is getting ready for bed upstairs. “I have some things for you before you go.”

Freddie frowns. “I don’t want to talk about anything.”

“Just some things for you. My word, when did you get so paranoid?”

He follows her into the kitchen and stands by as she rifles through the breadbox.

“You never have enough food in that apartment. Don’t argue. Brian comes over here and he eats every cheese bun I have in the house. He’s too thin.” She pulls out a plate of them and begins piling them into a bag. “There you go. Oh, what else? We have extra samosas. Here, I’ll put the vegetable ones separate.”

“Mama, you don’t have to—”

She cuts him off with a look and all at once he feels like he’s twelve years old again. After a beat she goes back to her work. “You’ll have to bring Roger and John over more,” She carries on. “I don’t know what they like, you know, or else I’d send you home with more.”

He blinks as she piles the bags into his arms. “Thanks, mum,” he murmurs. “You didn’t have to.”

“Mothers are supposed to look after their sons,” she says. “All of them.” Then she kisses his forehead and ushers him out the door.)

“Really well,” he replies. “Maybe I’ll even discuss it with them someday. I wasn’t quite brave enough to get into it.”

“You’re plenty brave,” Brian says, eyes big and warm and bright like the moon.

That’s no different than any other day, though. Nothing’s changed, not really, and that makes Freddie smile.

When they finally settle down for bed they’re so tangled in one another Freddie isn’t sure they’re four separate people, and that makes him smile, too. He feels Roger sigh against his chest, tangles Brian’s fingers with his own and allows John to hide his cold toes against the warmth of his thighs.

“Are you happy?” Roger whispers, and lets it hang in the air.

He thinks about it because he knows Roger wants him to. He thinks about waking up next to them; thinks about falling asleep like this next to them. “I’m more happy than I can put into words,” he answers honestly.

He feels Roger smile. “Me, too.”

“Me three,” Brian chimes in, and Roger laughs.

“Go to sleep,” John complains.

It’s Freddie who laughs at that one. “Sweet dreams, Deaky.”

There’s a beat of silence before John mumbles, “that’s what this is.”

Roger coos, blankets rustling as he reaches out to ruffle John’s hair. “Aww, John—”

“Get off,” John yelps.

They end up twisted in a warm bundle in the middle of the bed; Brian shoots Freddie an amused glance over their heads by the light of the street lamp outside before curling back in around Roger, dropping a kiss on the top of his head and closing his eyes.

Freddie curls into John’s space and breathes him in. “This isn’t a dream.”

“Oh?” John asks, a smile in his voice.

“Oh, no. No, this is no dream. This is very much a reality.”

The room is silent for so long that Freddie almost drifts off; he can hear Roger’s breathing begin to even out. He’s almost asleep when he hears one last murmur from John that makes him smile even through the haze of sleep.

“Good.”

**Author's Note:**

> Usually I try to write some sort of socio-political moral into things, but honestly this is just a rant I had to get off my chest before I launch into my next big thing. Which was going to be something cute and fluffy but might end up being porn because people were...really hype about my last porn. Which I love. I’m so glad I can provide the sluttiness and domesticity in spades. Keep on keeping on, you beautiful bastards. 
> 
> Anyway, in the meantime I’ve got a Tangled au which is in the works but which hasn’t been getting much attention. There are two chapters so far and it’s on my profile. This is blatant self-promotion, but any chance you’d want to check that out? Maybe throw lil ole me a bone? So that I can feel inspired to write more shit about boning? Anyone? Bueller? 
> 
> Love you guys, let me know what you think <3


End file.
